Vedder did not look impressed. Neither did Flint. She’d gotten lucky, and she knew it.
“However,” Vedder continued, “following an additional MVPD review into the incident, as required by the Police Act, the department has determined that a grievous breach of department protocol occurred, and it goes to a historical pattern of insubordinate behavior. There remains concern over your psychological frame of mind, especially after you lost your partner last summer and have not followed through with the required counseling.” Vedder shifted in his chair. “It’s been decided that disciplinary action will include a twelve-month period of probation where you will work as a uniformed officer in an administrative position that does not require carrying a service weapon. We’re offering you the position of social media officer within the community and public affairs section at a pay grade commensurate with the position. The officer currently in that position will be away for twelve months on maternity leave starting next week—you will relieve her for that period commencing tomorrow.”
Angie’s throat closed in on itself. She blinked. “You . . . can’t be serious?”
“This was a very serious breach of protocol, Detective Pallorino. In the course of our internal review, several officers expressed concern about potentially being partnered with you. Especially after the Spencer Addams shooting coming so close on the death of your previous partner.”
“I was cleared in that investigation.”
“One investigation too many. You will also report to an approved police psychologist for a psychological assessment and will follow through on the resulting recommended course of therapy. And you will attend department anger management courses, as well as a series of workshops designed to build better team players.” He pushed the MVPD file toward her and a copy toward Buchanan. “At the end of the twelve-month probation period, another internal assessment will be conducted.”
“After which I can return to sex crimes?”
“There is no guarantee. It will be contingent on behavior during your probation.”
Angie’s vision narrowed. Blood boomed loud in her ears.
Buchanan leaned forward. “Detective Pallorino has vacation and sick days owing that amount to a period of three months at her current pay scale—”
Vedder cut in. “If she chooses to take those three months now, the clock will only start ticking on her twelve-month probation when she returns.” A pause. “The public affairs unit will have a desk ready for you to report to first thing tomorrow, Pallorino. It’s a 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. position. Start time tomorrow will however be 11:00 a.m. because Officer Pepper, whom you’ll be replacing, will be available from that time onward to show you the ropes. She has a school presentation before that.”
Silence. The atmosphere in the closed office grew thicker.
Angie stared at Vedder.
Two weeks ago she’d been gunning for a big promotion into the elite all-male homicide division. She’d gotten so damn close.
School presentations?
A uniform?
No service weapon?
She’d never been that low on the totem pole. Ever. Social fucking media? You have got to be kidding me. It was humiliating. It wasn’t even an option—everything that defined her was in being a detective. In working major crimes. It was why she got up in the mornings—how she got up in the mornings. They might as well have fired her.
Happy shitty fake birthday, Angie.
CHAPTER 10
“Hey, it’s about time I finally got through. How’s the birthday girl? Did you get my other messages?”
Maddocks.
Angie tightened her hand around her cell phone. It was 7:52 p.m. She’d been sitting here at this bar counter at the King’s Head nursing a martini since 7:25. She lifted her glass and took a sip. “You’re going to tell me you’re running even later, aren’t you?”
“I’m so sorry, but—”
“But something’s come up? The case?”
“It’s a big deal. We got a major br—”
“Yeah, a breakthrough. I get it, Maddocks.” Her attention went to a narrow mullioned window that looked out into the dark parking lot. She’d chosen this stool so she could keep an eye on the Nissan with her boxes inside. Not that anyone was likely to break in and steal her cold case files, but she had a protective urge to watch over them nevertheless. She’d been champing at the bit for Maddocks to arrive—to tell him about Vedder, her probation. Her trip to Vancouver. Her major break with the cold case files. Maddocks was the only person she could truly confide in at the moment. He’d proven she could trust him. He’d had her back, and she had his.
“So how long do you think you’ll be?” She tried to keep her disappointment from her voice.
“Another half hour max. Can you wait, please? You having a drink?”
Irritation, resentment, anger, hurt, all of it crashed suddenly through her in one powerful, uncontrollable wave. “Look,” she said coolly, “I don’t think this is going work out, Maddocks.”
He hesitated at the sharp shift in her tone. “You don’t think what is going to work?”
“Dinner. This . . . this thing between us.”
“Whoa, Angie, back up—hold it right there. What’s going on?” A pause. “Shit, it’s the IIO ruling, isn’t it? Did it come in?”
She inhaled deeply and glanced up at the heavy paneling on the ceiling of the bar, struggling suddenly to marshal her control. “Yeah,” she said quietly.
A beat of silence. “And?”
“And nothing. I’ll talk to you later, when you’ve got time. I’m going to hang up now, finish my drink, and go home.”
“I’m coming to your place, after—”
“No. Don’t. Please.” She killed the call and sat for a moment clutching her phone. Her own image stared back at her from the mirror behind the rows of bottles across the bar. She could see deep bruises of fatigue smudged beneath her eyes, offsetting a deathly pale, gaunt complexion. She must have lost more weight than she’d realized over the past few weeks. Her hair hung sleek to her shoulders, lips painted deep red, for Maddocks’s benefit. For the occasion of her birthday dinner. She’d made an effort, but all she’d accomplished was “haunted.”
Who are you, face in the mirror?
An old rhyme came to her mind.
Fractured face
in the mirror,
you are my disgrace . . .
a sinner . . .
She cursed inwardly. She couldn’t do this. She could not sit for one year behind a desk, doing the job of a rookie, giving talks to auditoriums full of bored teenagers or elementary school kids, when she had acknowledged skill and experience in investigating sex crimes and, more recently, in working a series of linked, high-profile homicides. She’d helped stop a serial killer. Tweeting? Facebooking? Crafting posts for the Day in the Life of a Cop blog? Yeah, that was seeking justice. That was using her skills.
Enduring the punishment wasn’t even a guarantee of regaining her position in sex crimes.